


The Knock-on Effect

by Pitry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitry/pseuds/Pitry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knock-on Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Springtime_gen 2012 ficathon, for st_dl who wanted to hear about Ron after the war.   
> Many many thanks to my beta Kjmom1, without whom this fic would have been much less readable. All mistakes are mine.  
> Voldemort's quote (like the characters and the world and everything else) belong to JK Rowling.

_I have seen your heart, and it is mine._

Hermione was slowly waking up. Ron looked at her as she opened her eyes, and smiled. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she wrinkled her nose. “What time is it?”

“Half eight.”

“Mmm,” she said and tried to roll back to the other side.

“C’mon, you need to wake up. You’ll never forgive me if you spend all day doing nothing.”

She sighed. “Right.” Then she sat up in alarm. “Hold on - weren’t you supposed to go with Harry today?”

“Ah,” he gave a noncommittal response - one thing that, unfortunately, never really worked with Hermione. “Ron... don’t tell me you overslept.”

“I didn’t oversleep,” he said.

She pursed her lip. “What happened?”

“Well, I woke up, and I just thought... why?”

“Why wake up, or why become an Auror?”

“I don’t want to be an Auror. That’s Harry’s thing. Personally, I’ve had enough chasing after dark wizards for a lifetime.”

“More like chased _by_ dark wizards,” she corrected him.

“That, too,” he agreed. 

“But last night you said...”

“I know. Maybe I decided in my sleep. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Not if that’s what you really want,” she said.

“That’s what I really want.”

“Okay - then what _are_ you going to do? You need a job.”

He also thought about that in his sleep, apparently. “I’ve been thinking... George is looking for someone to help him with the shop, right? And it should be family. I mean... he hasn’t been the same since Fred died, and I can’t replace Fred, I know that, but - it’s family. Gotta be worth something.” He shuffled a bit now, unsure how Hermione would react. After all, working in a joke shop wasn’t being an Auror, was it? 

He breathed in relief when Hermione smiled. “I think that’s a brilliant idea,” she said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really. Now get up, before he hires someone else because you were too busy oversleeping.”

  
**-X-**   


Someone gave a muffled shout. Ron woke up with a start.

He dared hope, for a second, that it was a part of his own dream. He lay in bed, his eyes closed, willing himself to go back to sleep. But there it was, he could hear it through his closed door - footsteps in the hallway, retching sounds from the toilet, more footsteps, the sound of the kitchen tap opening and closing.

He opened one eye and banged his arm around the bed-stand, looking for his watch, until he finally found it and tried to focus on the small hands. 4:30. _Great_.

He sat up in the bed, rubbed his eyes, got up completely and walked out of his room.

Harry was sitting curled on the sofa, clutching a glass of water, staring out the window of the living room and into the darkness of the street. He didn’t have his glasses on. The light in the living room was off, but that didn’t surprise Ron. Harry didn’t even turn his head when Ron came into the room, which, while not surprising, was a bit worrisome. 

Ron sat down on the sofa, next to Harry. “Feel like Exploding Snap?” he asked. 

Harry shook his head.

“Chess? It’d probably be an even shorter game than usual.”

Harry shook his head again, but this time something that looked like the ghost of a smile came to his face. 

“Y’know,” Ron started again, willing his voice and words to sound as natural as possible, “I’ve been thinking. We could use some sort of plant here. It’s all boring and grey. Mum’s got this odd flower - I’m sure you’ve seen it, it’s in the garden at home? - this big red flower. Could work here. Next to the door.”

Harry opened his mouth and tried to say something, but his throat was too sore and the sounds he made didn’t sound like words at all. He coughed a little, drank from his glass, then tried again. “That’s the worst place for that huge flower. There’s no sunlight and we’d keep on tripping on it when we come back in the dark. It’d die in three days.”

“Let’s be honest here, Harry. If we ever got plants, they’d die in three days no matter _where_ we’d put them.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’d forget to water them.”

“I seem to remember the last failed attempt at raising something was yours?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Hey!” Harry protested. “Peppermint just _dies_. It’s a seasonal plant! I’ve asked Neville! Even magical peppermint isn’t any better.”

“Mmhm.”

“It wasn’t my fault the stupid thing didn't like the winter.”

“Mmhm.”

They looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“So,” Harry said, “a game of Exploding Snap?”

“Sure.”

Ron brought the cards from his room. 

The neighbours below started hitting their ceiling - Ron and Harry’s floor - with their broomstick after the third explosion. “Remind me again why we’re living next to Muggles?” Ron asked, as he packed the cards with a sigh. They’d be facing Mrs Jones again tomorrow, and as always, she’d complain about the noise they were making in the middle of the night.

“Remind me again why we’re not just putting silencing charms all over the place,” Harry retorted.

The answer, of course, was that the Ministry said they couldn’t. Dad had all kinds of complicated explanations concerning rules for wizards who lived in Muggle establishments, but Ron’s brain had stopped taking the words in long before Dad had stopped talking. He just shrugged and said okay, and every once in a while, the two of them wound up waking the neighbours at ungodly hours.

Harry finished the rest of his water. “What time is it?” he asked.

Ron took a glance at his watch. “Five.”

Harry swore. 

“You’re going back to sleep?” Ron asked.

“I’ll try,” Harry said, resigned. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey - you pay most of the rent, I can live with waking up in the middle of the night every once in a while.” Ron smiled with the words - and meant his smile, too - but Harry didn’t seem reassured.

“Every once in a while,” he repeated. “Huh.” He got up from the sofa. “Well, anyway, I’m pretty sure we’ve got some of Gawain’s, er, _creative_ nighttime Auror training tomorrow, so at least you’ll get to sleep properly.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll bring Hermione over.”

“Who needs sleep, huh?” Harry laughed. Mrs Jones from Downstairs started hitting the floor with her broomstick again. Ron got up on his feet too, and walked to his room. “Good night,” he said to Harry. 

“Good morning,” Harry answered back, and then, his hand on his own door knob, “Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Ron entered his own room, closed the door, and threw himself on the bed, hoping for another couple of hours of sleep before he had to wake up for work. 

Ron never had any nightmares at all.

  
**-X-**  


Wine - not _that_ wine, damn it - salad - he forgot to cut the onions! - what was that smell? - no, no, no - the chicken!

“You need a hand?” 

He didn’t even hear Hermione walking in. Everything was supposed to be perfect - he _promised_ her everything would be perfect - and she got in just as - “The chicken’s burning,” she commented, amused.

He waved his wand at the oven. The chicken flew out, much faster than he intended to, and crashed on the opposite wall.

Hermione laughed, then flicked her wand lazily, and the chicken rose from the floor, good as new, and was placed on the table.

“Sorry about that,” Ron mumbled.

“Don’t be,” she said. “This looks lovely.”

“I hope you haven’t had dinner yet!” he said. Strictly speaking, Hermione wasn’t supposed to be there at all - she was still a student at Hogwarts, having decided to return for the last year after all, and students were not allowed out of the castle during term.

But their various adventures made sure Hermione knew many, many ways of sneaking out of the castle if she wished it. And while she would normally be scandalised by such a blatant breaking of the rules, she seemed to think it was worth it for a Valentine’s Day dinner with Ron. 

“Haven’t touched a thing,” she said. “Even though it looked so great - yours is lovely too!” she hastened to add, and then laughed. “Jimmy Peakes thought I was ill, I was sitting there staring and not eating anything, and he kept on asking why don’t I eat anything and if I was feeling alright.”

“Jimmy Peakes has a crush on you,” he said, amused. He had always found the Gryffindor Beater somewhat ridiculous, and his frown the last time Ron came to visit Hermione at Hogwarts made Ron laugh with Harry for hours on end - Hermione, of course, thought they were being uncharitable.

She rolled her eyes in response. “I’ve noticed.”

It took Ron a moment to realise she was rolling her eyes at him, not at Jimmy Peakes. “Oh, come on!” he said. “I’m not worried!”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?” she asked.

“‘Course not - it’s _Jimmy Peakes_ , for heaven’s sake. You have better taste than that.”

She laughed now. “Why, thank you, Mister Weasley.” She sat down at the table. “You know, I kind of like it that you’re not so insecure anymore. It makes you so much easier to be with.”

“You might want to hold on to that thought until you actually get to taste the chicken,” he said, now worried again. He took the recipe from his mum, and followed it to the letter, but he still suspected he had messed it up. It was a bit like Potions, and he was never any good at Potions.

“Well, why wait then?” she said and took a bit of chicken. Her expression changed, the smile was slowly erased from her face and replaced with something else - curiosity? disgust? Oh no, Ron thought, she _hates_ it.

“How bad is it?” he asked in a resigned voice.

“It’s... hard to say,” she said, and swallowed with obvious difficulty.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it.”

“I think you should try it yourself,” she said, taking a sip of the wine in what was, Ron was certain, an attempt to erase the taste of the chicken.

“I know I can’t cook. I’m sorry, now you’ll be hungry and you missed such a great dinner at Hogwarts.”

“It’s okay, Ron,” she said in a sympathetic voice. 

“I’ll just throw it away, then.”

“Hey, before you do that - you need to taste it.”

“But it’s horrible!”

“I ate from it, only makes sense you have to, too!” she insisted.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. He took a bit on his fork - just a little bit - and, hesitantly, put it into his mouth.

It had the distinct taste of honey, and a bit of the pepper, and the prunes he’d cooked it with. It was sweet and juicy and _exactly_ like his mum made it and it was delicious. He stared at Hermione with his mouth open, and she couldn’t help but giggle. 

“You still have an insecurity or two to work on, I think,” she said and burst into full on laughter. He threw a piece of the chicken at her, but that just made her laugh more.

  
**-X-**  


Ron put the keys in the keyhole, but the door opened on its own. Could Harry already be home? he wondered. Most of the time, Harry came back after him.

“Hey,” he called as he walked in.

“Hey, Ron,” answered a voice - not Harry, but Neville.

“Oi, what are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Neville said, but he didn’t sound annoyed.

“You prat, of course it’s nice to see you, but what are you doing here?”

Neville shrugged. “Just wanted to say hi, I guess. Was in the neighbourhood.”

“Cool. Fancy a Butterbeer?” Ron walked to the fridge to fetch a couple of bottles. “But how come you left work so early? Harry’s never back this early.” He threw the Butterbeer at Neville, who caught it but didn’t open the bottle. Ron wasn’t quite sure whether he was waiting for the bubbles to subside or if he never much cared for it in the first place.

“Yeah, I left early. Told Robards I had a headache. I kinda wanted to, erm, have a talk with you.”

“You could have come with Harry - or is this about Harry?” Ron paused. “Did anything - ”

“He’s fine,” Neville hurried to say. “It’s not about - well, I guess it is about Harry, in a way, I mean...” Neville looked uncomfortable for a moment. “How did he react when he found out you’re not going to be an Auror?”

Ron looked at him in confusion. How did Harry _react_? He didn’t react at all, did he? “He just asked if this was what I really wanted to do, you know, work at the shop, and I said yes, that it’s fun and it’s with George and I don’t feel like chasing after dark wizards anymore. So he said cool, and then we just talked about how weird it would be not to spend all day together, and that was it, really. What’s going on?”

Neville looked at his Butterbeer. “It’s just... I mean - I don’t want to disappoint him, and it’s so important to him, and I thought it was important to me, too, you know, ‘cause of my mum and dad, but...”

Ron sat down next to Neville. “You don’t want to be an Auror?” he asked.

“Not really,” Neville said, the relief clear in his voice. “I thought I did, but it’s just...” Neville scratched at the small scar under his ear. That was the only mark left on his face from Voldemort’s curse - mostly, it didn’t catch, but having a burning Sorting Hat forced on your head would leave some sort of mark, Ron knew. 

“It’s like the war never ended,” Ron said, and Neville nodded vehemently. 

“That’s it!” he said. “Exactly. Same names, all those escaped Death Eaters, you know, and the danger... it’s important, I know it’s important, I feel bad even thinking about quitting, I mean, someone has to do it, so they won’t do what they did to my mum and dad to anyone else...”

Neville opened the bottle of Butterbeer and drank a little. “It feels bad. Like I’m running away from responsibility. Someone has to do it. And it can’t all fall on Harry again.”

“Harry’s got a choice, just like you do,” Ron pointed out, but Neville shook his head.

“You know Harry doesn’t see it that way - ”

“Harry sees it exactly that way,” Ron cut across him. 

“Maybe I just got used to following Harry’s lead,” Neville said quietly, staring at his bottle.

“Hey,” Ron said, “I know the feeling. I’d probably follow Harry to hell and back if he needed me to.”

“But you didn’t become an Auror.”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded and smiled.

Neville opened his mouth to say something more, but at that moment the door opened and Harry walked in. “What are you doing here?” he looked at Neville in confusion.

“He missed me,” Ron said before Neville had the chance to open his mouth. 

Harry looked from Ron to Neville, still confused, then shrugged. “Anyway,” he declared, “I’m starving.”

Ron stared at the kitchen. He, too, was starving. “We might have some pasta left from yesterday,” he said dubiously. If they had any pasta leftovers, he was pretty sure there was no sauce to go with it, and that it was cold and not very tasty.

“To hell with it,” Harry said, “let’s go out for pizza.”

“Just don’t tell my mum, she thinks we’re eating out too much.”

“Pizza,” Harry declared in an insulted voice, “is not eating out. It’s pizza.”

“Whatever,” Ron said and grabbed his jacket. “Come on, Neville, we found this incredible Italian place last week, you have to try their pizzas.”

“Sure,” Neville said, and if he was a bit quiet that night, Ron didn’t find a reason to point it out.

  
**-X-**  


“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Ginny greeted him as he walked down to the kitchen. She had a small envelope laid before her, and was reading with great interest the letter on the parchment. There was a plate with half eaten toast on the table, but a second look confirmed that there was nothing there but leftovers.

“When did you get here?” he asked, rummaging around the kitchen and trying to see if there was some toast left on a different plate somewhere.

“Mum left some breakfast for you in the frying pan. And yesterday evening, which you would have known had you got home before 2 a.m.,” she pointed out.

“Tell me I didn’t make that much noise,” he looked at her horrified, his hand holding a fried mushroom, frozen in the middle of the way to his mouth.

“Well, that would depend. Would you define a medium-sized elephant herd as ‘too much’?” she asked.

Ron groaned. Mum was going to kill him.

“Did Harry come with you?”

“Nah - he said he was going to spend some of the Easter holidays with Teddy and Andromeda. I, er, don’t think he knew you’re coming yesterday. Anyway, it’s Teddy’s birthday next week, and you know how Harry keeps on going on and on about how he never gets to see him.”

“Why doesn’t Andromeda just come here with Teddy?” Ginny wondered.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him, he said he’ll try to convince her.” Finally, Ron finished loading his plate with his mum’s great food, and sat down to the table next to Ginny. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” Ginny turned red all of a sudden. “It’s - well - it’s a letter from the Holyhead Harpies.”

Ron tried to ask what they wanted, but his mouth was too full. All that came out was indistinct noises, and Ginny twisted her face and told him he was disgusting.

“Sorry - meant to ask what they want.”

“Well - we had the game against Hufflepuff last week - and Gwenog Jones came, Professor Slughorn invited her, see - and she saw the game - and, she, er... they want me to join next year.”

“What?!” Ron yelled. “That’s brilliant!”

“I’m not sure I’ll accept,” she shrugged.

“You’re not sure - are you mental? It’s professional Quidditch!”

“It’s just the reserves.”

“Yeah - but that’s how you get into professional Quidditch!”

“I don’t know, maybe there’s other stuff I want to do.”

“More than professional Quidditch?!”

“Will you stop going on about professional Quidditch?”

“I can’t - it’s _professional Quidditch_!” 

“Well, George will be pleased,” she said.

“What does George have to do with anything?” Ron asked her, confused. “He’s got a shop, he’s not playing professional Quidditch!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “He had a bet, you see, with Bill,” she explained. “Bill said you’d be jealous as hell and sulk all day long, George bet him five galleons you’d be excited.”

“Of course I’m excited, my sister is going to play - ”

“ - Professional Quidditch, yes, yes,” she rolled her eyes yet again. “Honestly, you’re more excited than I am.”

“Well, if you’re on the team, I could get free tickets,” he said. She looked annoyed for a moment, then must have noticed his wink, because she calmed down. 

“You’re really not jealous?” she asked as she stole a fried tomato from his plate.

“Really,” he reassured her. “It’s too cool to be jealous about. ‘Sides, I don’t think the Holyhead Harpies are likely to hurry to sign me up.”

“You really think I should take it?” she wrinkled her brow at the letter again.

“Absolutely,” he said. “It’s - ”

“Professional Quidditch,” they said together. “Right,” she snorted.

  
**-X-**  


To Ron’s left, Harry was sitting up, looking straight ahead, but not seeing a thing. Ron could tell. To his right, Hermione was leaning on his shoulder, tears in her eyes.

Kingsley was standing on the makeshift stage, talking about the war. It had been a whole year. Ron couldn’t quite understand that. 

A whole year without Fred. 

He blinked the tears away, and passed his hand through Hermione’s hair, comforting her, and looked three chairs to his left, at George. George and Mum were both crying, hugging each other. Ron shook his head and blinked the tears away, trying to focus on Kingsley’s words. 

They were at Hogwarts. Everyone agreed that was the most natural place to hold a memorial ceremony for the war. Everyone agreed it was the only possible place. It wasn’t the Ministry’s day, because the Ministry, by then, had been Voldemort’s. No one wanted it in the Ministry, not even Kingsley. It couldn’t be in Diagon Alley, it couldn’t be in Hogsmeade. It couldn’t be anywhere but here - the same place they lost their loved ones, the same place where they fought - and won.

Not everyone was happy when Kingsley brought up the idea of conducting the memorial service. Harry was dead set against it; the only person more outspoken than him against the idea was Andromeda Tonks. George, too, was reluctant, and if he were completely honest with himself, Ron wasn’t too thrilled with the idea either. But the decision was made, they were invited, and he sat now, not taking in a single word of what Kingsley was saying. Instead, he was thinking of Fred, and of Lupin and Tonks, and everyone else they had lost that day.

That was all the memorial he needed, really, and he didn’t need a special day to remember them.

When the ceremony ended, Harry got up quickly, and started walking towards the castle. Ron and Hermione followed him without a word. They understood what he was running away from - any moment now, everyone would probably look for him, want to talk to him, share things with him... maybe that was one of the reasons he was so against the idea, Ron thought.

He remembered all the times at school when he had been jealous of Harry, of the attention he got and how everything had always seemed to revolve around him. Now, all he could think was that he used to be such a stupid kid.

They finally caught up with Harry in the third floor corridor. Harry seemed to think it was safe to stop running then. They stood there and looked at each other without saying a word. After all that time, they didn’t really need to.

“This is so weird,” Hermione spoke first. “Having you two here. Like it was before. Like we’re supposed to be somewhere else and we’re sneaking under Harry’s cloak.”

“Like nothing’s changed,” Ron agreed. “Yeah, it’s weird.”

“Not really,” Harry shrugged, and looked at the school around him in affection. “Hey - you know where we are?”

“Third floor corridor?” Ron said, confused.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Harry said.

“Oh!” Hermione had caught up, apparently, but Ron was still in the dark.

“What’s so special about the third floor corridor?!” he asked, but Harry was already walking fast towards his unknown destination. “Where are we going?!”

The penny dropped when Harry opened another door, and Ron noticed the trapdoor on the floor. “No...”

“Yes,” Harry said with a strange smile. 

They jumped down.

Ron couldn’t believe it. Not all of it was still there - the Devil’s Snare was gone, of course, as was the troll, thankfully. The charm on the keys had long since stopped working, but strangely, that only made finding the heavy key on the floor harder. The big chess board, too, didn’t come to life again, and they just walked through the pieces, Ron stopping for just a second in front of the white king. The fire in the entrance of the last room had died a long time ago, much before its caster, but the bottles were still there, arranged in a series, completely empty. Hermione stopped and looked at the small note, in Snape’s tidy handwriting, explaining the riddle, and smiled. Ron put his hand on her shoulder, and she reached with her other hand and squeezed it, without looking at his face.

Harry didn’t look at the bottles. He was standing in front of the last doorway in hesitation. 

“Harry?” Hermione must have noticed, because she asked in an unsure voice, then looked at Ron.

“Come on,” Ron said, with no hesitation at all. He knew what was waiting beyond that door. He knew why Harry would hesitate. Still, he thought, they got this far.

He pushed Harry slightly. Harry nodded, and took another step forward, and another.

They walked through the door.

It was still there. Ron stopped, for just a moment, he thought, when he saw it - it stood there, covered with dust, right at the centre of the room - the Mirror of Erised. Dumbledore had never bothered removing it from its hiding place. But even though he thought it was just a momentary pause, he still didn’t continue walking. None of them did. All of a sudden, the mirror looked much more threatening. 

The three of them stood there, at the doorway, in complete silence, none of them moving, none of them saying a word. None of them knew what to say.

Harry was the first who moved. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, bit his lip and went on, looking more determined than Ron had seen him in a long while. It took him only three steps to reach the mirror, and then he stood in front of it, tense and slightly frozen. 

Ron looked from Harry, to Hermione, to the mirror, and it took him a while to realise that Harry’s breathing was becoming faster and faster, more laborious, that he was blinking furiously as he looked at the mirror, but still unable to look away. He rushed to Harry’s side and pulled him away. “Come on,” he said quietly. “It was a bad idea.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice strange and hoarse, his eyes still fixed on the mirror. “Stupid kids’ dreams.”

“Come on, let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Harry said again, and if the snort he gave with the word sounded more like a sob, Ron wasn’t going to say a word. “Sounds good to me.” Finally, he looked away.

As they were walking away, Ron threw a quick glance at the mirror. He must have been standing at the wrong place, he thought. When he was a kid, he stood in front of the mirror, and saw himself older and cooler, Head Boy and Captain of the Quidditch team, surrounded by fans and admirers. Now, all he saw was himself.

  
**-X-**  


 _I have seen your heart, and it is mine._

It was the same old dream, over and over again. When Ron thought about it, he suspected he should have considered it a nightmare - after all, what else could dreaming about Voldemort be considered? But for some reason, he didn’t think about the dream as a nightmare at all.

It wasn’t just because it was more of a memory than a dream; not just because it really happened. He might have been young still, but he had seen enough in his short years that could be considered ‘nightmare’.

He just wasn’t afraid of this dream - this memory. That was it. It didn’t bother him. It was terrible, at the time - oh yes, Voldemort seeing into his heart, seeing all his fears, all his insecurities, all his jealousy, everything he had ever felt and was afraid of and ashamed of, everything he had done and said that he wished he could take back.

But it didn’t bother him anymore. Now, in the middle of the night, he had this ridiculous idea, that perhaps, when Voldemort had looked into his heart, he, Ron, had got a glimpse too. He thought of waking Hermione up, of telling her that, but her breaths were slow and deep and it felt completely wrong to wake her up just to talk to her about that silly idea he had. So he just rolled over and went back to sleep, and by morning, he knew, he would probably not remember a thing.


End file.
